


Multos Et Felices

by Kat_Rowe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, Post-Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, introspective Aziraphale (Good Omens), saying "I love you" without words, this is NOT a 2020 fic, this is a happy fic about hope and beginnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Rowe/pseuds/Kat_Rowe
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley did not expect to survive 2018. After all, it was the year the world was supposed to end. But the world is still here and so are they, which only leaves one question. Where do they go from here?Aziraphale knows that he and Crowley have a lot of things to sort out, and words are sometimes hard, but thereareother ways to express things.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	Multos Et Felices

**Author's Note:**

> A fic about surviving a year when it felt like the world was going to end, but _not_ a fic about the year when we all actually thought it might. This year is almost over and we are well shut of it. There are other, better years ahead.
> 
> Which brings me to the title of the fic, which is Latin for "many and happy" (the origin of the English phrase "many happy returns of the day"). This is the first year in which Aziraphale and Crowley are fully able to express their feelings. But they have so many more ahead of them. They have all the time in the world now.
> 
> Many thanks as always to [morgaine2005](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgaine2005) for the beta-work (and for finding the time to do it on Christmas Eve and Christmas of all days). Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Please enjoy the fic, and have a happy, healthy, peaceful new year.
> 
> (For anyone who's wondering, this isn't part of the "Who Needs Heaven?" series, but there will be more of that soon. Feedback is love.)

There were times when Crowley considered it a major oversight on his part that the Mayfair flat was not soundproofed. Normally, it just didn’t need to be, but on certain holidays, when the streets and parks were flooded by rowdy celebrants, it became impossible to sleep. Standing in his pristine kitchen and sipping a cup of coffee, he glared at the kitchen’s picture window. He could have miracled it soundproof now, but he was already awake and would never be able to get to sleep again, so there was really no point in bothering any more. 

Typical. This was the first New Year’s Eve since humans had started to celebrate the holiday that he didn’t have to show his face and Tempt people into mischief they were perfectly capable of getting into on their own, the first where he could just relax. He’d planned to sleep through the whole thing on principle, only to be roused early in the afternoon by the distant sound of the growing crowds. Waste of a good day off.

Scowling and refilling his coffee, he stalked over to the window, staring out at the streets below. Cars and people everywhere. He could just make out Berkeley Square and allowed himself a smile as he pictured the rage of certain local residents at having one of their pristine green spaces flooded with the unwashed plebeian masses. How dare someone who couldn’t afford to live in Mayfair be allowed to enjoy Mayfair! Didn’t people understand that the commonness might rub off and infect the area’s respectable residents? Chuckling to himself, he headed into the lounge, throwing himself onto the sofa and only managing not to drench himself with too-hot coffee via a minor miracle. 

Twisting and squirming, he fished his phone out of the pocket of his pyjama trousers to check the progress of the day’s revelry. A small part of his brain niggled that it would be fun to go out, lose himself in the crowds, and provide just a smidge of Temptation here and there. Hard to tell if that was nature or habit, but he was determined to ignore it. Next year, sure, if he wanted to. But _only because_ he wanted to. This year, he was going to celebrate his freedom by doing absolutely nothing. 

He wondered, in passing, what the angel was up to today. At dinner yesterday, he’d mentioned that the shop would most definitely be closed, alluding darkly to _incidents_ in previous years. It was Aziraphale, so he didn’t mind drunkenness in general, but he’d shuddered when he mentioned the difficulties involved in removing vomit from antique paper and leather and then quickly changed the subject. Crowley, who had, up to that point, been assuming that careless handling was the worst of Aziraphale’s worries, had gratefully allowed the conversation to turn elsewhere. So, although he’d passingly mentioned his own plan to not do much of anything, he had no idea what, if anything, Aziraphale had planned.

Restoring an old book, maybe, or catching up on some reading. He certainly would have mentioned if a museum or show had been in his plans, so something related to books seemed very likely. Or maybe he would brave the crowds as he had so often done in the past, quietly nudging people into more moderate behavior and more virtuous resolutions. Aziraphale liked his peace and quiet, but he’d never really minded crowds, either. Nor had parting ways with Heaven changed his fundamental goodness, so he probably _would_ be out working the crowds. Knowing him, he’d be enjoying it, too, all but glowing with delight. Maybe, if Crowley turned on the television and watched the live coverage, he’d glimpse the angel, whispering in ears or holding the undivided attention of small groups in that way he had. 

The instinct to go out had returned, a voice in the back of his head hissing that it was his _duty_ to counteract the angel’s meddling. If they ran into each other in the process, well, sharing a drink with a friend was traditional this time of year, and Aziraphale had always been a stickler for traditions. It was an appealing thought, although he told himself firmly that it really shouldn’t be. To attach significance to drinking with Aziraphale on a specific day, meaningless except for its location on a human calendar, as if they didn’t do the exact same thing at least once or twice a week already…

“You’re ridiculous, Crowley,” he told himself, shaking his head. “You saw him yesterday and you’ll probably see him tomorrow or the next day.”

_And you know how he gets when you act desperate. Don’t. Whatever you do,_ **_don’t_ ** _act desperate._

“Well, that settles it, then,” he concluded, throwing his phone onto the side table, setting his coffee down more carefully, and then closing his eyes. A little nap would cheer him up, only two or three days, just long enough to refresh himself.

The phone started to ring almost immediately. Typical. Not even his cell phone, but the one in his office, so he’d have to get up if he wanted to answer it. Probably not worth the trouble anyway. Telemarketers and scammers didn’t believe in days off, and he wasn’t in the mood to explain that he really, truly didn’t need… whatever was on offer this week. Thoroughbred racing crickets, probably. They’d already tried to sell him everything else under the sun.

So he stayed put and closed his eyes again, sighing and tuning out the sound of the ringing. But some sounds could not be ignored, so he bolted to his feet the second Aziraphale’s halting greeting came from the answering machine. The quick, unexpected movement left him tripping over his own legs, and his attempts to untangle them ended with him facedown on the lounge’s concrete floor.

~~~~~

Aziraphale found himself feeling entirely foolish when the answering machine picked up his call. He should have known that Crowley would be busy. It was _Crowley_ , after all, a man so widely liked that he’d probably been invited to a dozen parties with varying degrees of reputability. Yes, he’d mentioned not having plans for New Year’s Eve, but Aziraphale should have known that would change overnight. If he’d had any sense at all, he would have made his proposal last night instead of this afternoon. Never mind that he hadn’t intended to invite Crowley over then; he should have realized that he would eventually feel the impulse.

“Um, oh, hello, Crowley,” he began after the beep. “It’s me, Aziraphale, I mean. I suppose you must be out celebrating by now…” He hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat and plowed on, forcing himself to sound cheerful. “I just called to wish you a lovely New Year. There was a time when I think we both quite believed that we wouldn’t see another year after this one. But we have, which is just lovely. I’m so very glad we were wrong, and I do hope--”

“Angel!” Crowley’s voice cut him off.

Something heavy and oppressive in Aziraphale’s chest evaporated at the sound of his friend’s voice, and he found himself smiling, widely and genuinely. “Oh. Oh, hello, Crowley. I thought you must be out celebrating.”

“I told you I was staying in.”

“Well, yes, but… Plans change sometimes, don’t they? I’m sure you were invited to dozens of do’s. I was sure at least one would look attractive enough to tempt you.”

“No, not really in the mood this year,” he answered, and Aziraphale could hear the shrug in his voice. “Thought I’d just, you know, enjoying not having to work for once. Stay home and not do a thing.” 

“Oh,” he answered, chiding himself for feeling a bit disappointed. “Yes, I can’t imagine you’re in the mood to be at all social. I probably shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“You didn’t disturb me. Besides, I like getting calls from you. You should know that by now, angel.”

“I suppose I do. It’s just… well, it’s a bit… It’s taking me time to get used to certain things.”

“Lots of new experiences since the summer,” Crowley agreed. After a slight pause, he added, voice gentle, “You’ll get used to it, angel. We both will.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” he answered honestly, stomach flooding with warmth, as it tended to when Crowley was unexpectedly kind or comforting. “Of course we will. Thank you, Crowley.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for pointing out the obvious.” There was another pause, then he asked, “What do you have planned for tonight? Lots of good deeds?”

“No. I’ve always been required to try, but there are better times for promoting mass virtue. It does help if the humans I nudge are sober enough to remember it in the morning, and that’s not generally the case with New Year’s Eve. So I’m just having a quiet evening in. I thought…” He trailed off and the silence stretched, for so long that he thought the connection must have been lost. “Crowley?”

“Yeah, I’m here, angel. You were saying?” he asked, a tension in his voice that Aziraphale couldn’t quite identify.

“Oh. I… well, I thought, as we were both planning on spending the night alone quietly, we could… well, perhaps spend it alone quietly together?”

“Alone together, huh?” Crowley answered. An obvious smile in his voice, he added, “Yeah, I can get us a table somewhere quiet.” 

“A… Oh, no! I thought… That is, I mean to say this I was thinking that perhaps we could just stay in,” he clarified. “I mean, unless you wanted to. It’s just that there are such crowds everywhere on New Year’s Eve. We’d hardly be able to hear ourselves think, let alone converse, even somewhere small.” 

“Once the crowds pick up, your back room won’t be much better,” Crowley pointed out.

“No, I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, ignoring a slight surge of something like disappointment. 

“I usually am. Better come ‘round here. It’s not as loud, and we can even watch the fireworks.” 

Aziraphale remained silent for a moment, startled not just by the invitation but by how casually it had been extended. He’d only been to Crowley’s flat once before, and that under quite dire circumstances. No second invitation had followed the first, and natural delicacy had prevented him from showing up in Crowley’s sanctuary without an invitation. Well, delicacy and something much less noble. The days leading up to the failed Apocalypse had made certain long-standing sensitivities impossible to ignore. In the months since, both had behaved as if nothing had changed, but the pretense was occasionally rather strained. Words had been spoken in fear and anger and desperation: true words, along with some of the most ghastly and hurtful lies imaginable. Crowley had never demanded that the lies be retracted, but Azirapahle knew they must be. He’d injured them both with his lies and had been treading on eggshells ever since, unsure how to make things right again. 

Crowley was obviously struggling under feelings of his own, although Aziraphale had respected the mental shield his friend had erected around those thoughts. Even without a very obvious Do Not Trespass sign around his emotions, it was obvious that _something_ was wrong, though. Crowley was as sociable as ever, but also quite carefully… polite. Formal. Given the things Aziraphale had said and done, it was impossible to miss the cause of this almost-distance. So, while he knew he had to do something, Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of being so thoughtless as to simply show up at Crowley’s flat uninvited. 

The thing was that he hadn’t actually expected to be invited any time soon…

And now he had been. And surprise and confusion had struck him mute while Crowley was on the phone waiting for an answer. Worrying about what that answer might be? Oh! Oh, he hoped not.

“I… that does sound delightful,” he answered as soon as that unwelcome thought intruded, hoping he hadn’t sounded too hesitant to accept, and wondering how long he’d paused before answering. “You’re certain you don’t mind? I mean, I know it’s always been very much your own, private place…”

Crowley actually sighed in response and, as Aziraphale mentally kicked himself, he answered shortly, “Look, angel, it was just a suggestion. Bookshop’s fine. It always has been.” 

“Oh, no! No, Crowley, I didn’t mean to sound… I was merely reluctant to intrude on your privacy, that’s all. I know how highly you value it, after all.” 

Another sigh, followed by a short pause, then Crowley asked, sounding irritated, “So where did you want to meet?”

“Your flat sounds just fine,” Aziraphale assured him. “I’ll bring a bottle of really good champagne. Would you like me to pick up anything else on my way over?”

“Well, now you mention it,” he answered, voice instantly relaxing, “we’ll need nosh. I have plenty of booze, and some nice bubbly, but you’ve seen the state of my kitchen. I’m not sure I can keep us supplied with nibbles all night long. Not without a few demonic miracles, and who wants to snack on manna?”

Aziraphale chuckled at that, forcing himself to relax as well. “All right, you can supply drinks, and I’ll buy some canapes. I can get takeaway, too. What do you fancy?”

“Surprise me.”

“Ah, a challenge. I’ll do my best.”

“I look forward to seeing what you come up with. When will you be over? I should probably put some clothes on before then.”

Aziraphale felt himself color, but snorted softly at those words. “Ridiculous man. I’ll be there in an hour. That should give you adequate time to find _something_ to wear.” 

“I’ll dig something up,” he promised with a soft laugh. “See you soon, angel.”

“Yes. Yes, I look forward to it. I’ll see you soon.” 

Aziraphale made a happy noise as he hung up the phone and giggled as he caught sight of his reflection in the nearby window. He was wearing the most foolish grin imaginable, not literally ear-to-ear, but as close as could comfortably be managed in a human body. It was such a silly thing to be excited over, the idea of spending an evening at Crowley’s flat, after the number of evenings they’d spent together in the past few decades. Still, he indulged himself for a few more moments, just letting himself feel warm and pleased over the unforced invitation. 

It was very kind of Crowley, although Aziraphale would never be so ungenerous as to say so to his face. They both still had their facades, after all. Aziraphale pretended that he didn’t feel cast adrift by the events of the summer, and Crowley continued to pretend that he was not a good person. Neither believed it of the other, but they both played along, as they had so many other times, in so many other ways, almost since the beginning of time. He believed, with all his heart, that they would not need to cling to old roles and illusions forever but, for now, there was comfort in familiar ways. And there would continue to be, until a new and better way could be found. 

They’d be truly free when that happened, and it would be wonderful. 

His smile widened, stretching his cheeks a bit uncomfortably for a moment, and he shook himself, schooling his expression back into something closer to his usual one. There was always pleasure in free time spent with Crowley, but it wouldn’t do to behave like a giddy schoolboy at the mere _idea_. Not yet, not until the time was right. Although it was clear that Crowley had almost instantly forgiven Aziraphale for the hurt he’d caused, he hadn’t yet looked into Crowley’s eyes and seen the little something extra that would tell him it was time to move on. It might be years or decades, centuries even. He must wait.

He’d read once, in one of those books humans ‘wrote’ that were nothing but unconnected facts, that the heart beat almost two-score million times every year. Billions of heartbeats in a single human lifetime. He wasn’t human, but his heart did beat and had since the very beginning, more than a trillion of those lovely little fluttering spasms. It felt good, every time. Humans so seldom registered the sensation, but there was something so charming in it, a tiny little muscle sustaining life and carrying it forward. It was no wonder that the humans attributed such significance to the remarkable organ. The Greeks and Egyptians, along with some of their neighbors, had once considered it the seat of thought. Even knowing better, humans still talked about loving with all their heart; about following their heart; about showing, or hiding, their heart. 

He would have considered it ridiculous, if not for the fact that the organ in question had a habit of misbehaving in Crowley’s presence lately. It went too fast, or beat irregularly. Sometimes it felt like it was being squeezed painfully, or trying to break out through his ribcage. And, on a few rare and wonderful occasions, it felt like it was being tenderly caressed by long, deft fingers. He tried not to think about whose fingers, or of being touched by them in a more literal context. 

“Don’t think such things tonight, you silly man,” he urged himself, smiling and shaking his head at his own sentimentality. 

He wasn’t sure if that was new, or if he’d always suffered such moods and simply never noticed because he’d always been so on his guard. It didn’t much matter in the long run. Without a cadre of scrupulous archangels overseeing his every move, and without any lightning bolts from above indicating Divine displeasure, he was allowed to hold every last anomalous heartbeat dear, to close his eyes and hug it to himself and savor it. All the discomfort and uncertainty, so very human, and so strangely lovely. He didn’t have to deny it any more; he could freely cherish it.

Crowley would have called him a sentimental twat, no doubt, but Crowley used insults to express affection and always had. When he called Aziraphale ‘angel’ and accused him of being too high-minded for his own good, it wasn’t because those traits repulsed him, not at all. It had always been like that between them; each belittled the traits in the other that they most loved and admired. There were times when Aziraphale envied Crowley his freedom and irreverence. 

But this was hardly the time to take pause and consider such things. Crowley would be waiting for him soon, and there was no point in wasting time thinking about Crowley when he could actually spend time with him instead. He would stop by their favorite bakery, and he would get takeaway from that little Italian place Crowley adored. No point in stopping to purchase additional alcohol, not given Crowley’s prodigious store. But he would buy some poppers, and maybe a few of those ridiculous plastic tiaras the stores always had, the ones that showed the year. Perhaps a little plastic headband with 2019 formed across the top was just the right souvenir. He could keep it in his safe after, with his signed copy of Dorian Gray and original manuscript of Persuasion. 

A bit overly sentimental, perhaps, but Aziraphale was as he ever had been. His relief that the world had failed to end hadn’t changed him in any fundamental way, except that it had intensified his gratitude and appreciation of certain things. Now, the friendship that had always brought him pleasure sometimes felt downright intoxicating.

He was not literally walking on air as he headed to the corner shop, but his cheer was obvious, and infectious; people who had been frowning or looking tense a moment ago were smiling and chuckling by the time Aziraphale moved past. The shop, of course, was in a state of chaos. The harried-looking clerk, a girl who sometimes dropped into the bookstop after work, looked ready to burst into tears of joy as several large cases of New Year’s paraphernalia were discovered under a counter that, technically, didn’t actually have room to accommodate them all. No questions would be asked on that front, not today. And, tomorrow, the minds of the employees would have reduced the whole incident to a mere happy coincidence. 

Making a note not to mention the minor miracle to Crowley, Aziraphale helped the girl unpack the merchandise and distribute horns and hats to patrons who couldn’t believe their own luck at having managed to find any with just a few hours left to go. They chatted lightly for a few minutes, and she pretended not to notice when Aziraphale tucked a few items where other customers would not see them. She even hugged him before leading him to a free register to ring up his things, wishing him a happy New Year as he went on his way, his canvas bag holding the first purchases of the day. Crowley always used plastic, of course, but Aziraphale had been using canvas for decades. He had several such bags by now, most bearing a nice picture, or a quote he liked. Most of the quotes came from books or musicals, but today was Einstein: _learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow._ He’d plucked it at random from his pile of shopping bags, and gotten a chuckle at how appropriate it was for the start of a new year. A new era, really.

The streets were quite crowded, despite the early hour, but Aziraphale had always had a way of moving easily through crowds, never jostled simply because no one ever noticed his presence enough to try to shoulder him out of the way. It was charming, really, seeing so many humans thronging together, buzzing with goodwill and hope. It wouldn’t last -- it never did -- but he would enjoy it while it was here. He dropped into a few more shops, then turned his steps towards Mayfair, his bag bulging with snacks and supplies. 

Aziraphale’s fist tapped the flat’s door once, and it was jerked open before he could deliver a second knock; Crowley must have been near one of his windows and seen Aziraphale approaching the building. 

“There you are, angel. I was starting to think you got lost,” Crowley drawled, stepping back to allow him entry. “Come in.”

He smiled, stepping inside and smiling at Crowley. “You look nice today,” he noted, hoping such a compliment wasn’t too direct. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help the observation, though. He was used to seeing Crowley in some combination of clothes involving a jacket and some ostentatious bit of neckwear, something that could almost be mistaken for formality, but still managed to thumb its nose at the concept. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to seeing Crowley wearing an untucked shirt and no accessory beyond a little charm on a piece of black ribbon around his throat. He looked closer and resisted the urge to smile at the shape of the charm: a pewter snake wrapped a few times around a little apple crafted from carnelian. 

“Meh,” Crowley grunted in answer to the compliment, shrugging. 

“Is that a new necklace?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“What, this old thing? Nah, had it laying around for ages. Had it since… um 2002. Picked it up when I was in New York on a temptation. Haven’t worn it yet this year, figured this was my last chance,” he explained, taking the shopping bag from Aziraphale’s hand. “Come on, then,” he added, turning and heading down the long, sterile hallway. 

Aziraphale followed, trying not to look at Crowley’s ridiculous statue, and frowned thoughtfully. Had Crowley gone to America in 2002? He must have done, but the angel couldn’t remember when. Ah, well…

“Did you find us a nice bottle of champagne?” he asked as they entered the lounge. It was a sunny day out, and in the sunlight pouring in through the large picture windows, Crowley’s shirt looked more red than black. It was a fascinating optical illusion, if a bit distracting, so he shook himself and headed over to the window. “It’s a lovely, clear day,” he noted, staring out at the city stretching out beneath them. “Will we be able to see the fireworks from here?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley assured him, rustling around in Aziraphale’s bag and scoffing. “Plastic horns and tiaras, angel? Really?” 

He could feel himself coloring, so he didn’t turn to face Crowley as he answered, “Well, we _are_ celebrating. I might have overdone a bit, but…” 

“Nah,” he answered when the angel trailed off. “I mean, I prefer poppers to horns, but you got those, too, so I can’t complain.” 

Aziraphale relaxed a bit, smiling and turning around just in time to see Crowley beam as he unpacked the takeaway containers. “There’s taralli if you want an appetizer.” 

“Ooh, angel, you spoil me,” he moaned, pawing through the bags and boxes until he found the right one. 

Smiling indulgently, he told Crowley, “I’ll get plates and napkins. Save me some lasagna.” 

They shared a grin at that injunction, since both knew that Crowley was more one to pick at his food than to actually bother _eating_ properly. He might steal a forkful or two of the lasagna, as he probably would with most of the dishes and treats Aziraphale had brought, but with food as with most things, he’d never been very good at settling down to any one thing for any length of time. Smiling tolerantly over his friend’s eccentric approach to food, Aziraphale nipped into the kitchen, searching cabinets until he found plates, then finding the utensil drawer. He had less luck with napkins, and finally miracled a few into existence, folding them neatly into swans and setting them on top of the plates and forks before carrying them back into the lounge. They’d eaten at the table on Aziraphale’s last visit to the flat, but he’d gathered that wasn’t the norm for Crowley. 

“Thanks,” Crowley told him as he returned, declining a plate, but helping himself to a fork and grabbing the polenta. “You could feed a family of five with all this, angel.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure what you might be in the mood for. And, this way, we’ll have leftovers.” 

“Mmm, point,” he conceded, watching Aziraphale dish some lasagna onto his plate. “Thanks for coming,” he added quietly after a moment. 

The angel looked up in surprise, setting down his plate and fidgeting a little. “I… I was glad to come, Crowley, of course. You know how much I value the time we spend together. That is, I truly hope you do?”

He pressed his lips together tightly for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Yeah, angel, I think I do,” he answered quietly, nodding. “Eat up, okay?”

He nodded, reaching for his plate again and resisting the urge to give Crowley the same injunction. Neither of them actually _needed_ to eat, but there was something comforting in watching Crowley relax and let his guard down enough to actually enjoy a meal instead of just picking at his food and keeping an eye on his surroundings. It was a lovely thing to watch him today, flung across the sofa in a way that bore only a tangential relationship to sitting and casually helping himself to a bite here and there from most of the dishes on offer and, at one point, leaning over and grabbing a forkful of lasagna directly from Aziraphale’s plate. He laughed at that, swatting at Crowley’s hand without in the least meaning to deter him, and Crowley responded maturely, by sticking out his tongue. Aziraphale was vaguely aware that he was, for the second time that day, grinning foolishly, but it was hard to feel self-conscious, not when Crowley’s expression softened from amusement to downright tenderness as they sat smiling at each other.

The angel’s heart fluttered a bit, and warmth filled his chest as their eyes met and stayed together. There was an intimacy in such lingering eye contact, a kind of self-imposed vulnerability to letting oneself be looked first at, and then into. And Crowley’s large, golden eyes could see more deeply than most. They showed more, too, probably why he often wore his sunglasses even in Aziraphale’s company. But he wasn’t wearing them today, which made the very obvious affection in his gaze feel almost overwhelming. It wasn’t the first time Crowley had given him such a look, but it had never lasted so long, and Aziraphale had to fight the impulse to look away before either of their eyes said too much. They could say anything they wanted now, with their eyes or in any other way they cared to. 

That didn’t make it less intense or frightening, though, so their eyes did eventually slide away from each other and, for a time, quite the show was made of enjoying their meal. But they enjoyed each other’s company, too, in silence at first, although conversation resumed after a surprisingly short time. Of course, it wouldn’t be time spent with Crowley if it didn’t involve at least a _bit_ of light mockery.

“What did you get these for?” he asked, gingerly picking up one of the brightly-colored plastic tiaras with 2019 across the top in sparkly numbers and holding it between his thumb and index finger like he was afraid the kitsch might infect him. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I just saw them and thought it might be fun,” Aziraphale answered, shrugging and retrieving it from Crowley’s hand. “I’ve always had an appreciation for humanity’s more whimsical bent.”

“There’s whimsical, and then there’s gaudy,” Crowley grumbled. 

“Oh, as if you ever draw the line at a mode of expression simply because it’s gaudy?” 

“There’s flash, then there’s ridiculous, angel. Two very different things.” 

“Well, you don’t have to wear one, but I’m going to,” Aziraphale informed him, perching the tiara atop his own head with a shrug and a look that wasn’t exactly defiant, but which made it clear that he was having none of Crowley’s pooh-poohing. 

Crowley stared in surprise for a moment, then slowly smiled, leaning back against the arm of the sofa they were sharing and watching Aziraphale through half-lidded eyes. “Huh. Looks good on you. Somehow.”

“Well, there’s another one, if you want it,” Aziraphale told him, smiling. “I mean, if we’re going to go as far as setting off poppers, we might as well get fully in the spirit.” 

“I’ll let you cover my lounge in confetti, but I draw the line at ridiculous headbands.” 

“Since when?” Aziraphale countered. “I remember the 1980s.” 

“Oh, come on, angel!” he protested with a laugh. “That was a mad decade for everyone. Had to blend in, didn’t I?”

“I recall that you quite enjoyed having an excuse to wear excessive amounts of eyeliner again. It was like Egypt all over.” 

“I did _not_ wear eyeliner in the 80s. It was _guy_ liner, Aziraphale,” Crowley corrected with a smile. 

Aziraphale started to counter that Crowley had spent several years in the 1980s as a female, but couldn’t recall Crowley having worn very much makeup while in that form. “Very well, guyliner. But what was the point of it when you always wear sunglasses anyway?”

“I don’t always wear them around you,” he pointed out, shrugging.

Aziraphale considered that, startled. Had Crowley known, even then, how much pleasure Aziraphale took in looking at those eyes? Had the makeup, unseen by anyone else, been a deliberate attempt to draw his attention to them? Such a concept would once have been quite alarming, but Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to be anything but gratified by the idea. Not that he ever wanted Crowley to think he had to do something special to get his attention, but the idea that he _wanted_ to, and had for some time… Oh, wasn’t that just charming to consider?

“What are you grinning at?” Crowley demanded, staring suspiciously at him.

“I’m very happy, and why shouldn’t I be?” he answered honestly, shrugging. “We _survived_ , Crowley. Whatever may or may not be ahead, the world didn’t end and we’re both still here to enjoy it. What more could we ask for? Of course I’m smiling.”

Crowley blinked at the question and, for just a second, his expression was wistful. Then he smiled, wide and open and unmistakably genuine. There was a profound gentleness in that expression that Aziraphale could only recall having seen on Crowley’s face once before: on a bench, waiting for a bus while both wondered, and worried, _what now?_ Aziraphale had never felt as hopeless and directionless as he did at that moment, with Crowley offering him a place to stay and gently reminding him that he was allowed to accept now, if he wanted. But then hopelessness had been replaced with something else entirely, something he hadn’t been able to recognize or acknowledge at the time. 

Hope…

Crowley must have felt hope as well, and that wistful look left him aching to say something to Crowley, _anything_ to let him know that it was allowed now. But how did one even put something like that into words? How did one apologize for six thousand years of distance and rejection? Especially when, on the whole, those six millennia had contained so much truly enjoyable time spent together? It wasn’t as if Aziraphale wanted to forget the whole of that time, nor even most of it. But, mixed in with all those wonderful times, there had been a hundred little moments in which he had, with varying degrees of intent, caused Crowley real pain and loneliness. 

“Crowley, I…”

“Hey, it’s all right,” Crowley told Aziraphale when he faltered, voice surprisingly gentle. “Let’s just enjoy the day?” he suggested firmly. “Angel, we have more than earned it.” 

“Well, there is that,” he conceded, chuckling at how much of an understatement that was, especially from the normally overdramatic Crowley. Clearly, it was not yet time to actually discuss certain things. “Although, it strikes me that the day, thus far, has been lacking in one thing that might materially add to our enjoyment of it.”

“Alcohol!” Crowley cried, jumping up and hurrying over to his liquor cabinet.

The cabinet, with its elegant shoji style, was not an offense against good taste the way most of Crowley’s decor was. Aziraphale actually quite liked it. And, of course, the fifty-some bottles revealed when he opened the doors were only the tip of the iceberg. Setting down his plate and resting his chin on the back of the sofa, he watched Crowley pull a bottle of wine from its cubby, study the label, immediately put it back again, and then repeat the process several more times.

“It doesn’t need to be anything special,” Aziraphale told him finally, biting his lip. “I know your taste. Anything good enough to find its way into your collection in the first place will be just fine.” 

Crowley’s head shot around, far too quickly, and further than anyone with a human spine could have managed, and he stared at Aziraphale with wide eyes for a moment before giving a soft laugh. “Right you are, angel,” he declared, plucking a bottle from its cubby without looking. “We’ll make due with… a ‘53 Bordeaux,” he added, smiling as he read the label.

“Mmm, excellent year for the whole region.”

Grinning in agreement, Crowley dropped onto the sofa with the wine, snapping a pair of wine glasses into existence on the coffee table. There was something pleasantly familiar in seeing Crowley filling their glasses: the way he held the bottle so loosely that it looked like it might slip from his fingers and tilted it just enough for the wine to trickle out lazily, burbling pleasantly. It was, probably, very _human_ of Azirapahle to find pleasure and comfort in such a mundane experience, but he was starting to think that being in any way angelic was sorely overrated. Not that he intended to start behaving with Crowley’s level of impulsiveness and irreverence for the rules, but maybe humans really were a kind of Golden Mean. Hadn’t he remarked as much about Adam Young, after all? 

“What’s on your mind, angel? You look deep in thought,” Crowley observed, extending one of the wine glasses to him. “Everything okay?”

“Very much so,” Aziraphale assured him, nodding. “It’s just that so much has happened this year. I never could have imagined it ending where it has. It’s a lot to think about, but most of it is quite wonderful.”

“Yeah, yeah it is,” he agreed, grinning. “What should we drink to, angel? To the world?”

“To the world, yes, and to the dawning of a new year and a new beginning.”

His smile turned gentle again, and his eyes filled with warm light. “May there be many happy returns of the day,” Crowley wished, using a phrase he probably would have mocked as archaic if it had passed Aziraphale’s lips.

“Multos et felices,” he agreed, smiling and touching his glass lightly to Crowley’s. _Many and happy._

He remembered their dinner at the Ritz the day they escaped punishment by Heaven and Hell, the bone-deep sense of contentment that had managed to be euphoric and calming at once. Today, as that day, they fell into animated conversation about nothing of any real significance, and it was every bit as charming as it had been then. Crowley felt it too, Aziraphale thought, if his peaceful smile was anything to go by. The very best part of all was that the angel no longer had to consider it a guilty pleasure to pass his time in Crowley’s company. He could enjoy their time together without any hesitancy, and he had long since come to absolutely revel in that fact. 

Their talk meandered from the latest shows to a new cafe that had just opened up in Mayfair and, from there, on to the pelican they’d seen at the park the other day and the plants that would soon be flowering again there and in their other favorite haunts. Aziraphale was particularly pleased about the bird, a young female they hadn’t seen before, while Crowley spent better than an hour rhapsodizing over fig trees and wildflowers. Enchanted by Crowley’s unrestrained enthusiasm, Aziraphale ventured to mention an article he had read about rooftop gardening. As planned, that immediately spurred Crowley into a lecture on how many tons of soil would be needed, and all the difficulties Aziraphale might have creating his own rooftop garden. And, as hoped, once Crowley had finished holding forth on the myriad obstacles of such an endeavor, he freely offered to help Aziraphale in any way he could to make it happen.

“Can’t honestly picture you with dirt under your fingernails. At least not without ridiculous teeth and facial hair to go with,” Crowley added, smirking.

“One can hardly imagine _you_ wrist-deep in fresh fertilizer,” the angel countered, then frowned a bit. “Oh, am I going to have to use…” 

“Relax, angel,” Crowley laughed. “There are plenty of alternatives available in the modern era.” 

“Are there? Do tell.” 

Crowley stared at him for a moment, looking almost surprised, then he shrugged and started explaining the merits of seaweed and, of all things, molasses. 

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Aziraphale protested, shaking his head.

“No. S’truth. Molasses,” Crowley insisted, leaning over to grab the wine bottle and refill their glasses. “Hey, when did it get dark out?” he asked, frowning at the window. Giving Aziraphale a vaguely accusatory look, he asked, “How long was I talking about gardening? Why didn’t you cut me off?”

“You were enjoying yourself. And I enjoyed listening.” He shrugged, smiling and sipping his wine. 

“You’re being stranger than usual today, angel.” 

“Nothing strange in enjoying the company of my oldest friend. It’s been an interesting conversation, and I will certainly take you up on the offer of help, should I decide to add a garden to my roof.”

“You’d better. Indoor plants are hard enough to keep in line. You could never keep an open-air garden properly disciplined.”

“Crowley, you do realize, don’t you, that’s not actually what the humans had in mind when they started talking to plants?” 

“Yeah, I mean, maybe not, but you have to admit that my technique works better.” 

“I will admit no such thing, and, should I start cultivating plants, you will not be threatening them in any way. I absolutely forbid it.” 

“Suit yourself, but don’t come crying to me when you’ve got a full-scale mutiny on your hands.” 

“Oh, of course not, Crowley. It’s sure to be difficult, but I will somehow manage to deal with innumerable drooping leaves and the occasional Japanese beetle without assistance,” he answered, keeping his voice grave but not quite managing to keep a slight smile from crossing his lips. 

“You joke about it _now_ ,” Crowley grumbled, before giving Aziraphale a slight smile of his own. “Look at us, making plans for next year like normal people…”

The angel felt inclined to point out that there was nothing normal about either of them and never had been, but wasn’t about to spoil a mood like the one they’d achieved. Instead, he smiled and offered, “We can be normal people now, if we like.” 

“I think it would get old fast,” Crowley answered, resting his head against the back of the sofa and watching Aziraphale with slightly unfocused eyes. 

“It probably would,” he agreed with a warm smile, “but it is nice every now and again. Tired, my friend?” 

“Naaah. Jusss relaxed.” 

Which was too lovely a change for Aziraphale to ruin by commenting any further. It seemed much more prudent to miracle up an afghan and spread it over his friend’s slouching body. Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it again, smiling lazily up at Aziraphale instead of speaking. Which was such a lovely picture of domestic tranquility that Aziraphale didn’t dare break the illusion by reaching out and brushing the hair back from Crowley’s forehead like he very much found himself wanting to. Leaning back and watching his friend relax was almost as good, even if his fingertips tingled and his brain protested his restraint. So much could have been learned, it insisted: whether the skin of Crowley’s face was hotter than that of his very warm hands, for a start, and whether it would be smooth or rough, or somehow both at once like Crowley himself. These were, some treasonous corner of his brain insisted, vital pieces of intelligence. Meanwhile, every other part of him had reached the consensus that Aziraphale could have happily spent the rest of eternity watching his friend looking so peaceful and content. 

“Wot you sstaring at?” Crowley asked finally, his honey-colored eyes blinking slowly a few times.

There was something… different in the color of them just now, something just a bit more intense and earthy than usual. Staring at them and having his own eyes stared at in return left Aziraphale feeling warm and fond and so beautifully _trusted_. 

“I believe I’m staring at my best friend,” he admitted with a shrug in answer to Crowley’s question. “Does it bother you?” 

“Nah.” He smiled and closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. “It’s weird for me,” he added, expression turning thoughtful. “Not minding being watched.” 

Aziraphale considered this admission in silence for a moment, then slotted it away in his brain, tucked cozily between trust and honesty. How lovely. How warm and perfect and splendid! A more-than-ample reward for not indulging his fleeting curiosity earlier. Eyes burning just a bit, he smiled down at his friend. How had he _ever_ doubted Crowley’s faith and regard? Crowley’s love, if he was being honest with himself. And a little honesty was past due. 

“I’m so glad you invited me over, Crowley.” 

It was not enough, but it was a start. Judging by Crowley’s warm smile in answer, he felt the same. 

“Happy to have you, angel, always.”

“I know this can’t be at all what your usual New Year’s Eve is like. By now you must usually be the life of the party, with beautiful strangers queuing up to kiss you at midnight.” 

Crowley pulled a face at that, shaking his head. “Eurk, kissing strangers is not my scene. You never know where they’ve _been_ , for a start.” 

“Ah, yes. There is that,” he conceded, grimacing a bit himself at the idea of the kind of enthusiastic kisses he’d seen complete strangers exchange on New Year’s Eve. 

Not that Aziraphale objected to kissing, not in principle, but he’d never gone beyond offering a peck on the cheek or hand in greeting, or a tender kiss to the forehead in comfort. When humans tried to kiss him on the lips, which was not entirely unheard of, he did his best to keep his mouth tightly shut and ended the exchange as quickly as was politely possible. Of course, with the right person, delivered in the spirit of love, it wouldn’t be dreadful. But Crowley was right. Kissing complete strangers in bars and at parties was completely unsanitary.

Of course, Crowley was _not_ a complete stranger…

“Besides, the quiet makes a nice change of pace. I could get used to this,” Crowley admitted, straightening and batting as his phone as the alarm chimed softly. “Almost time,” he declared, slithering to his feet and retrieving a pair of champagne flutes from his liquor cabinet. “Grab the poppers,” he directed, picking up the champagne and heading over to the window. 

Obeying, Aziraphale followed, frowning at the dark sky outside. “Are you _sure_ we’ll be able to see the fireworks? I didn’t think this room faced the Thames?”

“We will, and it doesn’t.”

“Ah.” Smiling over at him, Aziraphale handed over a popper or, as the label declared it, a _confetti cannon_. “Should we have some music?”

“Myh,” he answered, snapping in the direction of his phone. 

Violin music, rich and warm, filled the room, and Aziraphale felt an odd surge of something between excitement and anxiety as Crowley gave the champagne bottle a good shake. They’d actually done it. They’d survived what was supposed to be the last year the Earth ever saw and were about to enter the first of many, many years as free agents and open friends. It was fitting that they be together at this moment. It was more than fitting; it was the only proper way to embark on such a momentous new beginning. 

He jumped a little as the fireworks started, a distant explosion of light and color, and as, next to him, the cork exploded from its bottle, bouncing off the window and sailing over Crowley’s shoulder. Cheers and shouts from the people on the streets below joined together into a swelling wave of sound. And, half an instant later, two full glasses were sitting on the windowsill and Crowley was detonating his confetti cannon into the air over their heads and laughing with unabashed delight as it floated down on them.

“Happy New Year, angel.” 

Aziraphale hadn’t entirely planned on it but he found himself, instead of answering, leaning forward and pressing his lips gently to Crowley’s. The poor dear froze, his laughter dying and, for just a moment, Aziraphale was afraid he had misjudged. Before he could panic, though, Crowley’s lips curved under his. He was smiling; he must have understood what Aziraphale did not yet have words for but still needed to express. He’d have to find the words eventually, but this was a beginning. And what was New Year’s for, if not new beginnings?

He kissed Crowley quite chastely, if for a bit longer than was entirely proper between people who were merely friends. But that was fine, because the word ‘merely’ didn’t belong anywhere near a description of their friendship. Crowley was blushing a little as Aziraphale finally drew away, which was fine since the angel could feel himself blushing as well. 

“I, uh…” he faltered, staring up into his friend’s near-luminous eyes and letting himself be soothed and grounded by the familiar sight. “Happy New Year, Crowley,” he whispered, picking up the champagne flutes and passing one to his friend. “I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted you to know…”

Smiling gently, reassuringly, Crowley touched his glass to Aziraphale’s, then took the angel by the shoulder and turned him to face the window. He didn’t speak as they sipped their champagne and watched the fireworks, and Aziraphale found himself not minding that fact in the least. Especially when, less than two minutes into the display, Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s back and urged him just a bit closer.

And, as they watched and listened to the people of their adopted home celebrating the close escape they didn’t even know they’d had, the pair remained that way. Standing so close that their hips touched, each with an arm around the other. 

This was going to be a wonderful year, and it was going to be the first of many… 


End file.
